The Head in the Ice

by Richard James

  Graves followed his gaze. “Poor devils,” he said. “I’ve ordered some hot soup for the men. I dare say they won’t mind sharing it with them.”

  “I’ve never known it so cold,” said Bowman, puffing on his hands in a futile attempt to restore feeling. “Will you take their statements?”

  “I will. But I’ve no doubt Inspector Hicks has got the whole thing wrapped up by now.”

  Bowman could tell Graves felt awkward in his presence. It was there in the little sideways glances he had afforded him during their conversation. Finally, his tall companion cleared his throat.

  “Are you feeling quite well, sir?”

  Bowman felt the skin on his neck begin to burn beneath his scarf. “I am well, thank you.”

  It occurred to Bowman that this was the first time he had seen Sergeant Graves since the night of the incident. The mundanity of their conversation was a world away from their last meeting. Looking at Graves, Bowman could see that he had not changed a bit. His face still had the flush of youth, his eyes bright and inquisitive. For Bowman, however, a lifetime had passed. He felt he had aged ten years. Anthony Graves had seen it all. Indeed, he had held Bowman back as his wife lay trampled in the dirt. If he had been left alone to intervene as he had wished, Bowman would surely have died too. He had often wished it so.

  “Well,” Graves stammered, clearly eager to put an end to the exchange as quickly as he could, “It’s nice to see you back, sir.”

  As they talked, the men had reached the little audience that surrounded Hicks and, seeing them approach, the bearded inspector broke off from his performance.

  “Ah, Bowman, so glad you could join us again.” The implication in Hicks’ choice of words was harsh, thought Graves, and he winced at their cruelty. Unabashed, Hicks drew from his pipe then held it aloft in a dramatic fashion. “Listen and learn.” Bowman rolled his eyes and looked down to his feet as Hicks continued, opening his arms wide in an expansive gesture. His great voice boomed over the crowd. He would, thought Inspector Bowman, have made an impressive actor.

  “Imagine the scene,” began Hicks, his eyes bright with the telling of his tale. “Two lovers meet in secret on Westminster Bridge, but theirs is a forbidden love. Perhaps their parents did not approve of their match. Perhaps it is a question of class.” Bowman looked to Sergeant Graves who was very obviously trying to suppress a snigger at these outrageous assumptions. “And so a pact is made,” continued the rotund inspector. “If they could not be together in life, then they shall be so in death. A final, tender kiss and they commit themselves to the Thames, taking with them the tragic sweetness of a forbidden love.” The crescendo in his tale was enough to provoke a smattering of applause amongst some of the spectators. Incredibly, it seemed as if Hicks was about to take a bow. He stopped short of quite so theatrical a gesture however, and contented himself with a gentle nod of his head by way of thanks.

  “But we have discovered only the woman’s body. Where is that of her lover?” demanded Bowman as the noise subsided. The crowd turned as one to look at Hicks in anticipation of an answer.

  “We’ve searched downstream and found nothing,” added Graves.

  “Then perhaps you should check upstream,” Hicks boomed, proud of his response.

  There was a flutter of movement from the crowd as the implications of his statement became clear. Even Hicks looked suddenly ill at ease.

  “Are bodies now in the habit of floating against the stream?” teased Bowman, giving voice to the doubters around him. Keen to see how Hicks would react, the crowd swivelled in unison back to face him. The inspector cleared his throat to buy himself some time.

  “Then I should have thought it was obvious to those of us who know the ways of love.” This brought a spontaneous laugh from some in the crowd, a laugh that was quite lost on Hicks. As he warmed to his theme, he drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his not inconsiderable chest. “Her lover lost his stomach in the face of death. He watched his sweetheart fall but he couldn’t jump. Thus, conscience makes cowards of us all.”

  This seemed to please the crowd, who turned to Bowman to hear his retort. “Then I shall look forward to him coming forward with his story. If he loved her so much, I doubt he could live with the guilt for long.”

  This strange performance was interrupted by a sudden shout from the team of workmen behind them. They had successfully cut through the ice and, with the aid of ropes and improvised pulleys, lifted out a large block that now rested on the frozen Thames. Around it, the men leaned on their picks and saws, wiping the sweat from their brows with their forearms. The team leader, a wiry old man with a flat cap and a drip of sweat suspended from his nose, called over to the knot of spectators by the shore.

  “There is no body!”

  “What?” roared Hicks.

  “There is no body,” he repeated. “Just a head. The rest was weeds and driftwood.”

  With that, Inspector Hicks turned back to his audience for a final flourish. “Aha!” he proclaimed without a trace of irony. “It’s just as I said. Murder, plain and simple.”

  As Bowman made his way over reluctantly to examine the grisly discovery, the crowd began to disperse. Among them, quite unnoticed, was a barrel of a man dressed up against the cold in a cape and shawl. A scarf was pulled up high over his chin, but it was possible to see that he had bushy, greying whiskers that protruded from his cheeks, sweeping back over his ears. His skin was as brown as a nut. A pair of small, dark spectacles hid his hooded eyes from view as, unseen, he crept stealthily over the ice and away from the crowd.

  II

  The Fisherman’s Tale

  Joseph Morley cut a dashing figure in the tight-knit streets of Southwark. Resplendent in top hat and Astrakhan coat, he carefully placed his silver-tipped cane before him as he trod the slippery streets. Occasionally, he was torn between walking through the clean snow in the middle of the road and thus running the risk of an encounter with the odd cart or hansom cab, or keeping to the pavements which were already strewn with dirt and mud kicked up from the wheels and hooves of passing tradesmen and their horses. In consideration of his new handmade shoes and spats, he generally chose the former, although once or twice he was forced to make a quick retreat in the face of an oncoming cabbie. Beneath the brim of his hat, his greying temples betrayed his age. Aside from a set of fast developing jowls, he liked to think he could pass for forty five, particularly if he held in his stomach, but the reality was that he looked all of his fifty two years. Tipping his hat to the ladies who were out and about and cautioning them to mind their step, Morley rounded a corner into an open yard set back from the main road by a pair of wrought iron gates. On them, and on the side of the imposing red brick building ahead could be read the words, “Joseph Morley’s Saw Mill”. The sign never failed in its effect on the thickset man who stood and gazed up at its letters. Joseph Morley was inordinately proud of all he had achieved in his life. From humble beginnings in a house in Cheapside where his father worked as a tanner, he had worked his way up from the floor of the saw mill to the lofty position he now held, that of mill owner and manager. He had found the will to learn to read and write with the effect that by the time he was twenty, he was trusted to handle the mill’s books and accounts. With an increase in wages came the opportunity to invest, which Morley did, and wisely. Money invested in the burgeoning tea trade paid handsome and regular dividends and so, in the fullness of time and with the help of a few friends at the bank (help not bought cheaply, mind) he had found himself, aged thirty five, in a position to buy outright the saw mill and all its equipment. As an employer he was determined to be firm but fair, mindful of his time as a young worker at the lathe. He was generally felt by all in the neighbourhood to be a right and proper gentleman, which pleased him greatly.

  Pulling a great ring of keys from his coat pocket, Morley stepped carefully across the yard to the passage beside the mill. He liked to be the first to work, not least to wake the urchins who cleaned the
saws and who slept for free on the factory floor. They would need, as usual, to be roused in good time before their work so they could avail themselves of a helping of soup from the workhouse across the road. It was an arrangement that Morley himself had secured, on the promise of an annual gift to the workhouse chapel.

  As he walked unsteadily into the passage, blinking his eyes against the cold, there was a movement behind a stack of timber by the mill wall. A frantic, scuffling sound caught his attention and he stopped and held his breath.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded after a few moments of silence. “I’ll have you know you’re trespassing.” Receiving no reply, Joseph Morley continued his progress up the alley. Somewhere a church bell tolled and the cries of early morning traders carried in the still air, mingling with the whistle of a train from the nearby railway. Another noise pulled him up short. It was closer this time, and ahead of him; a regular, rasping sound. Morley held his cane before him. “Well,” he growled, “I shall beat you out like the common grouse.”

  Morley sidled up the passageway towards the source of the noise, waving his cane before him and steadying himself as he went with a hand on the wall to his side. There was a low, rumbling sound as a great pile of timber toppled and fell before him, narrowly missing Morley’s head but making further progress impossible. He tried to back away but found his exit blocked by a man. He was shoeless but dressed in a threadbare coat and trousers with patches and holes at the knees. A greasy scarf hung around his neck and a weather beaten fisherman’s cap was pulled down tight upon his head. Most repugnant of all, however, was the hideous, gap-toothed smile that was spread across his face like a wound. In his right hand, he carried a length of wire that he swung ominously before him.

  “Get out of my way,” snarled Morley, determined to outface the vermin. “I would advise you to step aside sir, or I cannot be held responsible for my actions.” He held his cane aloft by the ferrule, its silver handle dancing perilously close to the villain’s face. With a movement too swift for the eye to follow, the interloper grabbed the stick and pulled hard, sending Morley sprawling back through the alley. Struggling to regain his balance, he was about to break into a run when he felt a tightening at his throat. He instinctively drew his hand up to his neck, but it was too late. A burning pain could be felt at his collar, and he could taste blood at the back of his throat. With his eyes bulging and his faculties fading fast, Morley knew at once that the fellow was using the wire upon his neck. He felt hot breath in his ear as the killer leaned in to whisper.

  “Down you go, my beauty.”

  Morley’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees, the snow beneath him stained crimson from his gushing wound. All hope of screaming now was gone. He could barely catch his breath. The wire was pulled tight again and Morley felt his life bleeding away. As darkness overcame him, his assailant lowered him almost tenderly to the ground where he lay, face down, on the ice. And there, his fingers scratching involuntarily at the wall beside him, Joseph Morley died.

  Isambard Fogg was quick and lithe, two qualities that served him well in his trade. Quick as a weasel he fell upon the body, his fingers searching through Morley’s coat for anything of value. From an inside pocket he drew an expensive, handmade leather wallet monogrammed with the owner’s initials. “A fisherman,” hissed Fogg as he fingered through the notes inside, “That’s all I am.” He held a few up to the light, agog at his good fortune. “I reel in my catch, and then I gut it.” He ripped Joseph Morley’s wedding ring from his finger and released a golden pocket watch from its anchor on his richly embroidered waistcoat. Yanking at the silver buttons on his coat to pull them free, Fogg stopped with a sudden thought. “Fine clothes,” he said, “They’ll fetch me a pretty penny if I’m lucky.” And so, working silently in the alley for fear of discovery, he proceeded to strip Morley’s body of its more valuable clothing. All in all, he thought, the morning had been kind to him.

  III

  A Den Of Thieves

  As the sun climbed higher into the brightening sky, a little of the ice which hung as icicles upon the tenement roofs of Southwark began to thaw. Dripping to the ground, they melted the snow and mud into a dirty slush as the city came to life. Private carriages and public omnibuses clattered through the narrow streets and alleys on the South Bank, and hawkers and traders set up their stalls amid the growing throng. Yards and workshops threw open their gates to workers and patrons alike and the air became heavy with the scent of smoke and horse dung.

  Away from the bustle, in a grimy little room off a side street in Southwark, sat three dissolute men of ill repute, warming themselves by a fire. The choking smog that rose from the brazier in the corner of the room served to obscure their faces. The brazier was, aside from a few low stools and a pile of blankets in the corner, the only furniture in the little room. A cracked and dirty window gave out onto the narrow street beyond but admitted little light, so that it was difficult to discern one man from another in the gloom. The low ceiling was coated with a skein of tar from a thousand smouldering cheroots and the bare brick walls crumbled to dust upon being touched.

  Jabez Kane sat closest to the fire, his swarthy appearance the result of successive layers of dirt and grime rather than any natural colouring. He picked at his teeth with a jagged blade and threw the last of his meagre breakfast into the flames. He was dressed in a motley collection of grimy clothes; hobnail boots, docker’s overalls, a kerchief around his neck and a ring through his ear. He had stubbled cheeks, dark, impenetrable eyes and a hawk-like nose but, most grisly of all, was the wide and uneven scar that ran from his forehead, over his left eye and onto his cheek. Its origin was a thing of myth. No one had ever dared to ask. All that was certain was that Kane had had the scar for half a lifetime and, whatever it was that had caused it, had failed to turn him from a life of crime. As he stretched his feet towards the fire, he gave his neighbour a shove. Albert Hobbs was snoring. Hobbs, it seemed, could sleep through anything and was notoriously hard to rouse. Even in his awkward position, propped up hard against the wall, one leg folded under the other and his arms hanging at his side, it seemed as if Hobbs was enjoying a deep and rewarding sleep. His rounded chest wheezed and rattled as it rose and fell, and his throat and nose bubbled and popped as he snored.

  “Hobbs!” Kane screeched, thumping him again for good measure. “Wake up or shut up!”

  Hobbs stirred and swore at his companion, pulling the hat further down over his face in determined protest. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” he drooled, lapsing again into a lazy doze.

  “Careful Hobbs,” came a voice from a darkened corner. Edmund Treacher had a ruddy face, the result of living an outdoor life. His hands were calloused and cracked, his clothes little more than a jumble of rags that afforded little protection from the cold outside. “They shoot dogs that live beyond their usefulness”.

  Treacher sat chuckling on his haunches, eating chestnuts from a bag. Periodically, he would throw the shells at the fire, not caring much if they struck his companions or fell short to litter the floor.

  There was a rattle at the makeshift door that was little more than a wooden pallet, and Treacher rose to investigate. Peering through a crack to the street beyond, he gave a grunt of recognition. “It’s Fogg,” he announced, although the occupants of the room showed little or no reaction to the news. With an effort, Treacher levered the door open, scraping the bottom across the rough, uneven flagstones on the floor. The noise woke Hobbs who, his interest roused by the commotion, pulled his hat up over his face. Peering into the gloom, he wiped sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand and took a swig from the bottle of gin at his side.

  “Here he is,” said Kane turning his head to the visitor, “The organ grinder’s monkey.”

  Hobbs laughed a low, abrasive cackle. “Looks like he’s got a little something for his master, too.” He leaned forward from the waist, the better to see the visitor and his wares. “Been busy have we?”

  As Isambard Fogg squeezed
in through the door he lowered the sack from his back, glad to relieve his shoulders of their heavy load. Rubbing his sore neck to ease the stiffness, he paused as his eyes adjusted themselves to the darkness of the grimy room.

  “Trinkets,” he spluttered in the smog. “Trinkets and baubles, that’s all.”

  As one, all eyes in the room turned to size him up. Fogg was much as he always was, save for two notable additions. On his feet, in stark contrast to the tattered hems of his filthy trousers, he wore a pair of exquisite handmade leather shoes complete with spats. Upon his head, a top hat was perched incongruously. The mood in the room shifted at once as Kane and Hobbs rocked on the floor, their laughter echoing around the cramped walls.

  “Oh look, Hobbs, he’s a proper gentleman, so he is!” Kane was laughing hardest of all.

  “I don’t think a gentleman would be seen with the likes of us, Kane,” said Hobbs, enjoying the joke. “P’raps he’s lost.”

  “Fogg? Fogg, is that you?”

  The low, booming voice had an immediate effect. The laughter stopped abruptly. Kane turned his face to the fire once more and Hobbs’ hat was pulled again over his eyes.

  “Get your bones in ’ere where I can see ’em!”

  As Treacher heaved the door closed behind him, Fogg swallowed hard. Throwing the bag back over his shoulder, he made his way to the tattered and greasy curtain that hung over a doorway to an adjoining room, the source of the imposing voice. Pausing to polish the toes of his brand new shoes on the backs of his legs, he stepped bravely through. As he disappeared from the room, the three remaining occupants glanced conspiratorially at each other, then threw back their heads once more in cruel, mocking laughter.